Haphazardly Poems | Examples

runny eggs

letters never rhyme with words,
like the moon's distant from the sun,
hissing are the bats so unheard
and pleading is no-one.
Forests burn by the mornings
and.....painted are the reds,
skulls since Racism
of hating the Indians
or the Mexicans.
Or the Latinos,
Or the blacks,
He's worse than sins
banked chips in casino
over the dearth of a river's banks.


Street-lights flickering
Until Dawn whitens.
Pebble beaches hurt the feet.
Propaganda's sunken
to ease the pain of our toes
An edge of stones we knew,
and how the searches glow
Cold are the ifs and the hows
And Barista coffee of mornings
seize a moment and lose the speech,
I stopped believing since the last chill
of an unknown of a dying will,
and now moving in the Russians....
Vodka with ice-blocks orange

I once had love,
in my child's tummy,
Sighted above,
eggs runny,
walked before the dummy...
Quake from the above
English 18th century

I once had love,
in a child's tummy,
Sighted above,
eggs runny, 
bulldog scummy
I'm flying boxing gloves
as the day's now sunny.......

You can't haphazardly
destroy what is already
not fractured but broken.

D E F G H

Delirious damaged and deranged
Elusive, reclusive, psycho character
Frenzied, frantic, stalker
Grasping disillusioned damaged dreams
Haphazardly handling his harrowing emotions

Stars

The moon was bright when we were stargazing.
I thought the stars were haphazardly scattered across the sky.

You didn’t.

You thought they were intentionally placed in every space.

I liked the idea of them being thrown like seeds and you liked the idea of them being carefully set.

So, we agreed to disagree.

Now the moon isn’t so bright.

And the stars are covered by clouds.

And I wish we had agreed.

No uncertain terms -Simply confounding-

Harsh asymmetrical contour following dislocated noncontextual departure.
Roaming, haphazardly choreographed with precise misaligned determination.
Mindfully staggering indistinguishable purpose, consistently in linear circumnavigation.
A matter of process, a state of perpetual traversal, saves from permanence.
The ad infinitum of specificity is quantum, the superposition allowing consistent continuity while indelibly transposing by observance. 
Redundant to its operation, yet necessary in its function. 
Leaving spaces unfiled by way of impetus, whilst evidently consiquential. 
Paradoxically self referential, pertinently inescapable ever presence.

The Ride

She rode unsaddled on the mighty horse.
Her hazel hair flew haphazardly and coarse.
They crossed the rippling river, laughing with flair.
They rode to the ranch, her husband waited there.
Yet she needed his love and climbed quickly upstairs.


Placed  2

Stuck

Feet glued to your welcome mat,
our fingers meshed like Velcro
and pieces of our shattered hearts
haphazardly taped together;
my tears and your fidgeting
weaken the adhesive,
yet, we do not—
can not—
move.

February Is Short, Cold, Snowy, And Pristine

I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.

February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb’s now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.

February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And hardcore lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.

Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.

Brutal trench battle

Brutal trench battle

I am only 18, a young yearning lad
In battle I killed a man today, bashful does that make me lawfully bad
Now living day to day, guilt-ridden and far from being gay
Over the trench, not one hurried soul will less haphazardly reach a finish line
I wish it were me to just jadedly enjoy my time
You’ll forget me if I go, so for remembrance you’ll put on a show
We lived in fear and pitiful pain, where for a general it is all to gain
The fields did turn blood-red, but a new chapter so enough sorely said

Prickles the Gust

“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.

The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.

“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.

Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.

Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.

FALL IS RUSHING BY

The raspy rustling of freeze-dried multicolored leaves
Rush past my raised windows and open door as the soft breeze
Gathers its strength and sprays them haphazardly along
The leaf cluttered sidewalk and shadowed lined street.
Fall is rushing past me, Massaging my ears,
Delighting my senses. Raising my awareness
                Of another passing year.
Another Season coming into its own,
Of which I must rise in unison to capture
The play of its vibrant life colors 
To experience its fully clothed glory
Trees are giving up their spring and summer growth
To the nudging of cooler nights and coming winter snows,
Only to rise again with next year’s budding.
Each Season expresses a new and different story.
So soars by us each brief life through its Seasons,
One with the cycles of the Creator,
Loving the magnificent moments of brightness and joy
It's lingering beauty swept away 
In the next season of liberation.

The Mysterious Gift

She walked along the narrow path.
Along the side of the lonely stream.
Her golden hair was wet
and stuck haphazardly to her face.
That face that was so tanned
fruit of summer swimming
in the lake nearby.
Her hands were cupped,
one over the other.
It's a present for you, said she.
I wondered what she hid.
She smiled and pirouetted
lively on the wet, dewy grass.
She made as if to turn back, 
then stuck out her tongue.
Get your present, she taunted.
I was slightly irritated
but decided to comply.
Slowly, she pleaded
and opened her hand.
Out jumped a small green frog
and sprang into the stream.
She laughed, a melody of joy.
And I?  I felt I was 
In a whirlwind of mad emotions.
Was I like the frog?
Was I a prisoner of her love?
Only to escape when she let go?
How childish she was!
I looked deep in her green eyes,
So full of innocent joy.
I smiled, then kissed her deep;
Then, hand in hand
we turned back home.

The Hourglass

Grains of sand, begin to stream in steady flow,
As the hour glass is flipped over.
One by one, they fall, through the bottleneck.
Each one a moment, a tick, tick, tock, soft and brief.
On top, the grains are gathered haphazardly in a pile.
At the slippery neck constriction they line up to queue.
like a flock of birds or a school of fish,
getting ready to be called to free-fall in formation,
through the slippery glass funnel into the abyss below.
There they pile-up forming a stock-pile of memories
shaped in an inverted funnel of regret begotten,
in a pile with sand grains tumbling down the sides.
At the top of the hour glass lied a collection of time unspent,
Below lies a pile of sand grain ticks, expended, some misspent.
Between them, lies the funnel of fate’s eternal hand,
Its fingers guiding the passage of time
as grains of sand flowing through the hourglass.

 Grain by grain, moments fall,  
all fragile and small.  
time drifts endlessly    
slipping away 
sinking,  
gone
as memories
pile up, collected
as they spill and tumble
down the face of the base
of the sand filled hourglass

H I J K L Poem

Handsome Hardy Hal haphazardly hung horrid hearts on healthy hedge
Impossible? Impractical? Improbable? Too near the ledge?
Justifiably joyful, joked Jerry’s jolly jubilant jonquils, gyrating
Kansas kittens carried kaleidoscopic kits that clung to the ledge
Legitimizing lovely lively lilies laying in lovable lulls near the hedge

Woodstock 1969 revisted

Like returning to a place in a dream:

sound of one hand clapping:

the mottled butterfly haphazardly flits

into the welcoming Light of day.

Sea Glass

As a pebble from a rough rock, my existence began.
Did I, devoid of destiny, have a peculiar plan?
I was caught between the caves of waves and tricky boulders.
The sun over the seashores was not less than a smoulder.

Haphazardly, with nothing of my gleeful goal, I flowed
Amidst coarseness, a ray of refulgence from within glowed.
Hazardous hardships of grinding and gravelling I bore
Priceless perfection, yet, passionately possessed my core

Twisted, turned, and tossed, my hard edges got softened and smoothed.
Indeed, there were moments too, when, by sea waves, I got soothed.
I am strong now. I'm bright and shining like a sparkling gem.
Shreds of sun and moon hide between the bold folds of my hem.

How I am joyous when I am in a child's tender hold!
How grimness grills my heart when, by a merchant, I am sold!
Ups and downs are parts of process my existence, I know.
This is why I don't fear when in streams like a leaf I flow.

I am humble even when I look tall, fat, high, or wide.
In the process of my becoming, I have lost my pride.
As every being or nonbeing, I too might be gone.
Isn't life a bon voyage from the known to the unknown?

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